


Am I Still Ill?

by handmepleaseacity



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handmepleaseacity/pseuds/handmepleaseacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posner's been listening to The Smiths a bit too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Am I Still Ill?

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I listen to sad British pop music. My fist fic in this fandom. Also, English isn't my first language, so there are probably some mistakes.

_“I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving…”_

 

He’s singing quietly, so quietly that Scripps has to hark in order to hear his words properly. It seems the days of those cheery little serenades are over; this song’s by that new, miserable rock band Posner has been going on about for some time now. He’s been trying to get Scripps to listen to their stuff, too. Scripps can’t say it’s bad, just a bit weird and slightly too melancholic for his taste. “That’s exactly what I love about them”, Posner had answered when Scripps had put his thoughts into words after listening to the tape Posner had given to him.

 

_“Under the iron bridge we kissed and although I ended up with sore lips…”_

 

And to be honest, Scripps is willing to listen to anything Posner likes to sing. Hell, with that clear tenor of his Posner can probably make anything sound good, more than good in fact; like fresh honey or a cold shower after a run, or... The metaphors fail him, as usually, when thinking about Posner. Scripps has filled page after page in his notebook in attempt to write a decent narration of Posner’s voice, and yet he can never quite describe it so that it would make sense, let alone do justice.

_  
_

_“It just wasn’t like the old days anymore, no, it wasn’t like those days…”_

 

It’s those goddamn lyrics that bother him. They’re not _bad_ ; Scripps can eagerly admit that that Morrissey person sure knows how poetry works. It’s just that they’re so bloody miserable. And listening to Posner singing those songs like it’s the most natural thing, like that’s how it is… Well, it goes a long way toward breaking Scripps in half to think that it’s probably what Posner thinks about his life nowadays.

They have this sort of unwritten rule about not mentioning the D word under any circumstances, at least not if it has anything to with _love or something alike_ , but a few of days ago Scripps had had to ask whether it had something to do with Posner’s current mood. Pos had shaken his head, flashed an unhappy smile and assured him that it was over, completely and irreversibly. That it had been like that more than a while now, from the beginning of the first term. And Scripps likes to think that Posner would never lie to him.

And yet…

 

_“For there are brighter sides to life and I should know because I’ve seen them but not very often…”_

 

It’s like the clouds are coming down, the cold, depressing drizzle is chilling and wetting them all over. But that’s what the weather’s usually like, yes, and neither of them is complaining. They’re strolling around campus, it’s Saturday and _officially_ they both have something more important to do; books to read and essays to write, but then again, there’s nothing more important than this, is there? They’ll probably catch their death, though.

Their pace is slow and more often than not Scripps finds himself observing Pos from the corner of his eye. His hair looks darker when soaked, and it has lost its slight, natural curl. His shoulders are hunched, arms hanging idly at his sides. He smiles only when he catches Scripps looking at him, but it doesn’t happen often because Scripps is being careful as always, trying hard not to give too much away. If he were a braver person, he would catch one of Posner’s idle hands, lace their fingers together. But he knows he’s a coward, always has been, and that’s that. Posner wouldn’t be a prick about it, of course he wouldn’t, quite the opposite. He would smile his calm, unhappy smile, tell Scripps that he is flattered, but. Or then he would try to pretend for Scripps’ sake and that would be even worse.

_  
_

_“It just wasn’t like the old days anymore, no, it wasn’t like those days, am I still ill?”_

 

And then Posner catches his eye once again and smiles that little smile of his which doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and well, maybe this is Scripps’ day of not being a coward, because he simply can’t help himself anymore. He clasps their hands together quickly, before he has a change to consider, have second thoughts.

Posner draws breath loudly. Scripps is almost too afraid to actually look at him, afraid of what he might see, an honest expression clearly written all over Posner’s face.

But Posner doesn’t pull his arm back, doesn’t flinch, not even in the slightest. Doesn’t say anything either, and Scripps hardly moves until he can’t handle his curiosity anymore. He absolutely must see the look on Posner’s face and try to interpret his facial expression to English or any other recognizable language or poetry or sheet music or _anything_ , anything Scripps can understand. So he looks.

And even though describing Posner’s voice is a difficult task, it’s nothing compared to that of describing Posner’s present expression. He’s smiling like Scripps has never seen him smile before, it has nothing to do with that joyless semi-smirk with which Scripps has become way too familiar over past few months. It’s his actual smile, corners of his mouth tugging upward in the loveliest fashion. For the first time in ages the smile reaches his eyes, lighting them up, lighting _him_ up. Lighting Scripps up, too, and he cannot help thinking that maybe he was wrong, maybe there might be even the tiniest chance.

“You don’t mind?” he asks, his throat suddenly dry and his voice low.

“Mind?” Posner asks in return, and Scripps can hear him smiling. “No, I don’t mind. I’d rather hoped this would be the case, actually.”

Scripps feels like screaming. Of joy, mostly. “You never said anything,” he accuses lightly.

“Neither did you,” Posner answers. “I figured you didn’t want to hear anything about it,” he adds after a while. “I told you, though. Several times. I told you every day, in everything I did.”

Scripps doesn’t have a proper answer for that, and honestly, he could slap himself for not noticing. Instead, he holds Posner’s hand a little tighter, hoping it will somehow signal everything he feels at the moment.

“Pos…” he starts.

“It’s okay,” Posner says, smirking vividly. “You can spend the rest of the day making it up to me.”

“Sure,” Scripps smirks back. “Got anything special in mind?”

“Well”, he shrugs. _“Under the iron bridge we kissed and although I ended up with sore lips…”_

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Still Ill by The Smiths.


End file.
